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Gift Certificates from Firefly Farm make excellent presents for any holiday.

Send us a check for the desired lessons/camp/party, and a gift certificate will promptly be sent to the address of your choice. A small note of “Do not open until Christmas” can be written on the outside of the envelope.

Lessons–set of 4 one-hour lessons –$100

One-hour long lesson–$30

Camp–certificate for any amount toward camp for the next summer (maximum of $200)

Pony Ride–a five minute pony rides is $5

Please support our small business.

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The world was covered with ice, and nature’s glass steadily broke apart everything it touched. Our silent guardians, the trees, appeared Leprosy-riddled. Their limbs quivered and fell as they stood helpless against the assault. Ribbon-wire fences swayed and drooped; their burden a glittering, crystal swag.

The horses were irritable–their playground too icy to frolic upon. Their excitement was reduced to running in the indoor arena. My charges, grateful for time to buck and nip without falling on their noses, took full advantage and were reluctant to exit the barn once inside.

We retained heat and electricity for the duration of the ice storm, and never lost it in the ensuing days–a fact, for which, I’m still grateful.

The stable is back to normal for the horses. The kids are frolicking once more in their pastures. For us, cleanup has just begun.

(As a side note, the cleanup will commence once the cold snap is finished. Until then, I’ll play with ponies in the indoor arena.)

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The bay mare shivers, sighs, and then braces herself; shaking silver raindrops from her gleaming body. She stands sentinel at the wooden fence, observing the other mares. She lowers her head and snuffles, then raises it as she hears a distant whinny. Her pacing resumes. She cares little for the other mare in her pasture, wanting to belong, but refusing to submit to their dominance.

Honey watches from the shelter of an open run-in stall, munching contentedly on hay that was meant for both horses. She doesn’t attempt contact with the other mare, nor does she shy from it.

Honey (my shy palomino) and Hart (the new bay mare) are perfectly matched to become best friends. Hart is dominant and Honey is extremely submissive around new horses. However, that’s not the way Hart wants to live her life. Instead, she wants to be

best friends with Phoenix.

Phoenix, the very large and in-charge Canadian Horse. The horse who is considered Beta to Melody’s Alpha.

Hart whinnies and nickers and cries to be let into the pasture with Phoenix. When I relent and put them out together, Phoenix kicks little Hart’s tushie. Like kick-her-and-then-run-after-her-until-she’s -100-feet-away tushie kicking.

Hart and Honey are in a bonding-time-out in the wooden pasture today. I have two run-in stalls open, both with hay inside.

No dice.

Hart darts along the fenceline, chasing down unrequited love from a fellow mare who doesn’t prefer her company.

Meanwhile, Honey reaps the rewards of being chill. She munches, licks her lips, and in her own little pony way, smiles.

I endured this dance five times yesterday morning. Five Times. I understand I’m crazy, but the things that scare ponies are eyeroll worthy.

I knew the husband’s generosity at allowing Lucy the Chicken to live indoors in our bathtub would wear off. So what if she had 3 broken bones and the Vet said she had a slim-to-none chance of making it? That was, like, months ago. Ancient History. These are the times that try men’s souls–or rather, now is the time that men tire of a chicken-poo scented bathroom.

Therefore, I considered my options.

Could I push Lucy out in the world cold-chicken? Naw. Instead, I dragged my friend Sherin to the local Family Farm and Home, enticing her with visions of flannel-lined jeans. Together we scoured the aisles for something–anything–that I could use for Lucy.

“Do you have a chicken house suitable for a little lame bantam?” I asked my friend Nellie. “Maybe a house and chicken yard attached?”

“Sure, got one right here.” Quick as a monkey, she scurried up the crossbeams and onto the tippy top of the chicken aisle. As I mentally quaked for her safety, she yelled for another associate to help her yank the monstrosity off the highest shelf. Not only did they have to dissassemble it, they still couldn’t fit most of it into my car.

“Get more horsepower,” my friend Art grunted.

“Talk to my husband,” I said. “I’ve been trying for years. At least I got a horse farm.”

“Ok, well, I’ll deliver it to you myself. I’ll be drivin’ a red truck. Don’t shoot me when I come over.”

I promised him I wouldn’t, and he graciously offered to bring it himself.

Once Art arrived, he unloaded the Chicken McMansion.

“Did you know you already have one of these?” He asked, pointing to Lucy’s prior dwelling.

I nodded. He shook his head, commencing construction.

Quick as a duck landing on a pond, Art put the Chicken Mc Mansion on the market for a new owner. Once I explained that Lucy currently lived in the bathtub up at my house, the poor man raised his eyebrows, shook his head yet again, and left.

(I think he wanted to run from the crazy animal lady before the insanity rubbed off.)

Lucy instantly took to her new digs, laying an egg within an hour of entering her new home. She’s completely at ease in the Chicken McMansion and attached yard.

If only the horses could relax in the same way. Every time they walk past, it’s “new.” Sniff, snort, prance, pull, flip out. It never gets old. They have to pass the McMansion to go into the RAMM Fence pasture, and every time it’s an adventure.

However, if the horses relaxed the same way Lucy did, I’d make millions. Who wouldn’t love to know a horse who lays eggs?

“Hold it like this, honey,” Mom says. She corrects the child’s grip. “Color in the lines.”

The child grows, now able to hold the crayon properly.

“Make sure that when you color, use the proper crayon. What color is the sky?” Mom asks.

“Blue,” The child says.

Cappy has worked inside up until now. He’s learned his gaits and he’s almost ready. Soon we’ll ride outside.

I’ve guided him step by step, trying to fill holes in his education gradually and without reprimand–only reward. I’ve started with a base layer of color and I’m adding to the masterpiece. I want to be certain if he reacts outside, it isn’t from fear/uncertainty/confusion about my instructions, which would only leave environmental concerns. If he’s upset over a tree, or a car, or another animal, I can deal with them once he’s obedient under saddle.

The baby boy is almost what I’d consider green broke. Once he’s ready, he’ll go home. Until then, he’s my canvas to play on.

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His lips wrap around the grass, and he raises his head at an angle. The tender shoots rip and snap from their roots. His muscles ripple beneath the skin, and he strains for the last few nibbles.

His nose won’t reach.

He readjusts himself, preparing for the battle to come.

I hold steady. This is a fight he cannot win.

Zeus is allowed a certain length of rope as I graze him in the back yard. He isn’t allowed to step out of our “bubble.”

The Alpha horse in each herd decides when to stop and eat, when to move on, and when to drink. The Alpha is In Charge. He’s a kind, benevolent leader–but in the end, is also a dictator.

Zeus needs to learn that he is not the Alpha of any human.

He pulls and yanks and nods his head in irritation. I stand firm.

He sighs, snorts, and shakes his head. I smile. He sniffs the desired greenery, but steps back. His nose wiggles as he munches on the tuft near his feet.

I step forward one step. He lifts his head, a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead, buddy. You earned it.” I scratch behind his ears, and he lifts his head. He arches his neck, begging for me to find his itchiest spot. I oblige. Grey hair trickles through my fingers as his spring coat sheds from my touch.